Monotheism

First published Tue Nov 1, 2005; substantive revision Fri Sep 6, 2013

Theists believe that reality's ultimate principle is God—an
omnipotent, omniscient, goodness that is the creative ground of
everything other than itself. Monotheism is the view that there is
only one such God. After a brief discussion of monotheism's historical
origins, this entry looks at the five most influential attempts to
establish God's uniqueness. We will consider arguments from God's
simplicity, from his perfection, from his sovereignty, from his
omnipotence, and from his demand for total devotion. The entry
concludes by examining three major theistic traditions which contain
strands which might seem at odds with their commitment to
monotheism—the Jewish Kabbalistic tradition, Christianity, and
Shri Vaishnavism.

Most mainstream Old Testament scholars believe that the religion of
the early Israelites was neither monotheistic nor polytheistic but
“monolatrous.” While the existence of other gods was not
denied, Israel was to worship no god but Yahweh. In virtue of the
Mosaic covenant, Yahweh became the “confederate god” of
Israel, and they become his people (Meek, 215). In part, this is
characteristic of any “national religion: in practice only the
gods of one's own nation are significant.” Yet it was also
unique, for “one of the distinguishing characteristics of the
Israelite religion is the belief that there are not several gods of
Israel but only one, Yahweh, who claims exclusive devotion.”
(Ringgren, 67) There are no unambiguous assertions of monotheism from
the pre-exilic period, however. Even so, biblical scholars agree that
the religion of Israel was at least “incipiently”
monotheistic from its Mosaic beginnings. Why? Three things were
arguably decisive.

In the first place, “we encounter very early the idea that
Yahweh is the creator of heaven and earth.” (Ringgren, 67).
Although it is true that polytheistic religions frequently include a
creator in their pantheons, and these creators are often comparatively
unimportant, there is a natural transition from the claim that a god
has created heaven and earth to the belief that he or she is
lord of heaven and earth, and from there to monotheism. In the
second place, there are “repeated affirmations … that
Yahweh is the greatest and mightiest of the gods.” (Ringgren, 99)
Finally, the religion of Israel is unique in demanding exclusive
worship; only Yahweh is to be worshiped by Israel. The extension of
this notion to the idea that Yahweh alone is to be worshiped by
everyone is natural (although perhaps not inevitable). If
these considerations are correct, then the characteristics of Yahweh
that eventually led Israel to assert that Yahweh is the only God were
his creation of heaven and earth, his power and greatness, and his
right to exclusive worship.

Parallel developments occurred elsewhere. Especially noteworthy is a
phenomenon that sometimes occurs in polytheism, namely, that during
worship the god is treated as if he or she were unlimited and supreme,
and given epithets that properly belong to other members of the
pantheon. (This occurred at certain stages of Vedic polytheism, for
example.) More generally, the religious attitudes bound up with
theistic worship (whether monotheistic or polytheistic) appear
to have a certain inner logic, tending to lead the devotee to magnify
the object of her devotion by denying limitations and adding
perfections. The logical limit of this tendency is the ascription of
such properties as universal sovereignty and unlimited power. The very
same attitudes also tend to lead her to unreservedly commit herself to,
and center her life on, the god to whom she is devoted. It is therefore
no accident that polytheistic systems often end up elevating one god or
principle to the supreme position, and reinterpreting the others as its
agents or manifestations; they become, in other words, essentially
monotheistic. This occurred, for example, both in late Paganism and in
Hinduism.

A striking feature of these developments is that the ideas about the
object of worship which seem to have most directly led its devotees to
explicit affirmations of monotheism—universal sovereignty,
omnipotence, and a demand for total devotion—are precisely
those underlying the three most powerful philosophical arguments for
God's unicity. We will discuss these shortly. But before doing so let
us examine two historically important attempts to show that there can't
be two gods because nothing could distinguish them—an argument
from God's simplicity and another from his perfection.

God is often thought to be simple in the sense that each of God's
real properties is identical with each of his other real properties,
and with his being or nature. For example, God's knowledge is identical
with his power, and both are identical with his being. Just as
“the teacher of Plato” and “the husband of
Xanthippe” don't mean the same yet refer to the same individual
(namely, Socrates), so “the wisdom of God” and “the
power of God” have different meanings but refer to the same thing
(namely, the infinitely perfect divine life or activity). If God
is simple, however, it seems that there can be only one
god.

For consider the following argument. Suppose that there are two
simple beings, x and y. x has the property
of simplicity, S, and whatever property, P, suffices
for identity with x. And because x is simple,
S=P. But y, too has S. y
must therefore have P as well and, hence,
y=x (Leftow, 199–200).

Notice, however, that God's simplicity is a second-order
property, that is, a property of God's first-order properties such as
wisdom, power, goodness, and the like. The doctrine of simplicity
may entail that God's (real) first-order properties are
identical. But does it entail that all of God's (real)
second-order properties are identical with his (real) first order
properties (and thus that God's simplicity is identical with whatever
first-order properties suffice for identity with God)? It isn't clear
that it does. Since simplicity and other divine second-order
properties supervene on his first-order properties, the latter entail
the former; nothing could instantiate each of God's (real) first-order
properties without instantiating such properties as simplicity. But the
converse may not be true. For couldn't a thing be simple in the defined
sense (namely, having all its first-order real properties identical
with each other and with its being) without having the divine
properties? (Numbers might be an example.) If it could, then simplicity
is not identical with the real first-order properties that suffice to
make God God.

We needn't suppose that God's second-order properties are identical
with his first-order properties to mount an argument from simplicity,
however. Suppose that God is simple in the sense that, for any two of
his first-order properties, P and Q, either
P is identical with Q or P is logically
equivalent to Q (that is, it is impossible for him to possess
P without possessing Q, and vice versa). Let us also
suppose that there are two gods. If both are God, then both possess the
first-order properties essential to divinity. Call these D. If
the two differ, each possesses at least one first-order property which
the other lacks. Suppose, for example, that the first possesses a
first-order property, H, and the second possesses its
complement, non-H. Since each is God, each is simple. Hence,
either H is identical with D and non-H is
identical with D, or H is logically equivalent to
D and non-H is logically equivalent to D.
Therefore, either H is identical with non-H or
H is logically equivalent to non-H. But this is
incoherent and, even if it were not, the possession of H and
non-H could not be used to distinguish the two, since either
H and non-H are the same property or H and
non-H are logically equivalent properties. It therefore seems
that if God is simple, there can't be two gods.

There are at least two problems with this argument, though. First,
the doctrine of divine simplicity is highly controversial—not
all theists accept it. Second, even if the doctrine is accepted, the
most that may be required is that God's essential (real)
properties are either identical with each other or equivalent to each
other. God also appears to have (real) contingent properties, however,
and, if he does, these properties can't be identical with or equivalent
to his essential properties. For consider the property of being the
ultimate cause of my existence or the property of knowing that I am the
author of this entry. Since acting and knowing are paradigmatic cases
of real properties, being the ultimate cause of my existence or knowing
that I am the author of this entry would seem to be real properties of
God. (Pace Thomas Aquinas and others who implausibly insist that they
aren't even though God really has them, that is, even though God really
does stand in these relations to me.) But they are also
contingent properties of God, since there are possible worlds
in which God exists and doesn't create me, and possible worlds in which
God exists but doesn't know that I am the author of this entry
(because, for example, I never write it). Since God has his essential
properties in every possible world in which he exists and does not have
his contingent properties in every possible world in which he exists,
his contingent properties can't be identical with, or equivalent to,
his essential properties. It follows that if H and non-H are real but
contingent properties of two divine beings, they are neither identical
with nor equivalent to D. The argument from simplicity thus fails
because it leaves open the possibility that two gods could be
distinguished by a difference in their real contingent properties.

John of Damascus argued that because God is perfect, he is
necessarily unique. The only way in which one god could be
distinguished from another would be by coming “short of
perfection in goodness, or power, or wisdom, or time, or place,”
but in that case “he would not be God” (John of Damascus,
173). Aquinas offers a similar argument: If there were several gods,
there would be several perfect beings but “if none of these
perfect beings lacks some perfection,” and if none of them has
“any admixture of imperfection …., nothing will be given
in which to distinguish the perfect beings from one another”
(Aquinas, 158).

Arguments like this make two assumptions. The first is that
properties can be exhaustively divided into three classes. The first
class is the class of imperfections, that is, limitations (my inability
to run a two minute mile, for instance) or privations (for example,
blindness or sin—properties that imply defects, some deviation
from the standards appropriate for evaluating beings of the kind in
question). The second is the class of mixed perfections, that is,
good-making properties that entail some limitation (for example, being
human or being corporeal) or privation (repentance, for instance). The
third class is that of pure perfections—perfections that entail
no limitation or privation (for example, being, goodness, love,
knowledge, power, unity, or independence). The second assumption is
that God possesses all and only pure perfections. With these
assumptions in place, the argument works. Two gods couldn't be
distinguished by a difference in their pure perfections since both gods
have all of them. And they couldn't be distinguished by a difference in
their other properties because they haven't any.

Unfortunately, both assumptions seem false. For God appears to
possess some properties which are neither imperfections, mixed
perfections, nor pure perfections. If he does, then some properties
belong to none of our three classes, and not all of God's properties
are pure perfections.

The property of being the ultimate cause of my existence appears to
be an example. The property isn't a (pure) perfection but, rather, a
contingent expression of a (pure) perfection, namely, the
exercise of creative power. (God is perhaps better or more splendid for
exercising creative power, but he is not better or more splendid for
having created me.) But neither is it a limitation or
privation (though it is not, of course, a full or
complete expression of the relevant divine perfection). Nor
does it appear to be a mixed perfection. God's instantiating a possible
world containing me precludes his instantiating possible worlds which
lack this interesting feature but entails no inherent limitation or
defect in his creative abilities. At least one real property, then, is
neither an imperfection, mixed perfection, or pure perfection; and at
least one of God's real properties isn't a pure perfection. Both of the
assumptions on which the argument is based are thus false.

The argument from divine perfection, like the argument from God's
simplicity, fails because God appears to possess some of his real
properties contingently. Yet the question remains, could two
gods be distinguished on the basis of a difference in their contingent
properties? It is doubtful that the contingent properties we have
discussed will serve our purpose. “Knowing that Jones
exists” would (in a world containing Jones) be a property of any
omniscient being existing in that world. And “Creates
Smith” would (in a world containing Smith) be a property of any
creator of that world. Perhaps all of God's real but contingent
properties are expressions of his perfect knowledge, goodness, and
creative power. And perhaps it is impossible for two gods to exhibit
different expressions of this in the same possible world: In any
possible world, w, two omniscient beings would know the same things;
being supremely good their appreciations and valuations of the things
in w would presumably be identical; and each would be the creative
ground of everything else that exists in w. If all of God's real but
contingent properties are expressions of his pure perfections and if,
for any possible world, two gods couldn't exhibit different expressions
of those perfections in that world, then no possible world contains two
gods.

Furthermore, if there are individual essences, two individuals,
x and y, couldn't differ only in their
contingent properties. (I is an individual essence of
x if and only if x has I in every possible
world in which it exists and, for any individual, y, and any
possible world, w, if y has I in w,
y in w is identical with x.) For suppose
they did. Then their essential properties would be the same. A
being's individual essence is an essential property of it, however.
Hence, if x and y had the same essential properties,
they would also have to have the same individual essence. But, in that
case, x and ywouldn't be two individuals
contrary to our supposition. And if no two beings can differ
only with respect to their contingent properties, two gods can't
either. (For a sophisticated version of an argument of this type see
Zagzebski 1989.)

Could two gods be distinguished by a difference in their
essential properties, however? (The doctrine of simplicity may
entail that they can't but—as noted above—the doctrine
of simplicity is controversial.) Each god would obviously have to have
all the properties essential to divinity (omniscience, omnipotence,
perfect goodness, and the like). But could they be differentiated by
essential properties peculiar to each? Could, in other words, the first
god have an essential property which the second god lacks, or vice
versa? Zagzebski (1989) thinks that it can't. Human beings are
distinguished in virtue of their having different individual essences,
and human rational beings and angelic rational beings are distinguished
in virtue of their possessing the properties essential to humanity and
to angelhood, respectively. But no individual human (way of being
human) exhausts the fullness of humanity (the many ways of being
human), and neither humanity nor angelhood exhaust the fullness of
rationality (the many different ways of being rational). Being divine,
on the other hand, entails being “wholly” or
“perfectly” divine, that is, being everything a divine
being could possibly be. So “two divine beings” could not
differ “in an essential property” in the way in which
individual human beings, or human beings and angelic beings, can.
(Zagzebski 1989, 10–11)

Is this argument entirely compelling, though? Arguably, it is
impossible for any individual to exemplify all the possible ways of
being human or all of the possible ways of being rational. So why
assume that it is possible for a being to exemplify all the possible
ways of being divine? Why think, in other words, that there aren't
different and mutually exclusive ways of exemplifying
divinity—being Allah as depicted in the Quran, for example, or
being the triune God of Christianity, or the Vishnu of the Shri
Vaishnavas? (For more on some of these possibilities see section 7
below.) Or again, suppose that the relevant differentiating property
is having a certain emotional or mental temper—Yahweh's as
depicted in the Hebrew Bible, say, or Krishna's as depicted in the
Bhagavata Purana. Suppose further that neither of these emotional or
mental tempers is better or more worshipful than the other. Isn't it
an open question, at least, whether either of these emotional or
mental tempers is essential to
divinity although they may be essential to being
Yahweh or being Krishna, respectively? If they aren't, then it is by no
means clear that any being can exhaust the fullness of
divinity.

While the arguments we have discussed in the last two sections are
impressive, they hinge on claims that would not be accepted by all
theists—that God is simple, for example, or that there are real
individual essences, or that any wholly or perfectly divine being
exhausts the fullness of divinity. By contrast, the three arguments
that we will examine next are firmly rooted in attributes which almost
all theists ascribe to God—his universal sovereignty,
omnipotence, and demand for total devotion—and are thus more
compelling.

One of the most popular arguments for monotheism is drawn from the
world's unity. If there were several designers who acted independently
or at cross-purposes, we would expect to find evidence of this in their
handiwork—one set of laws obtaining at one time or place, for
example, and a different set of laws obtaining at a different time or
place. We observe nothing of the sort, however. On the contrary, the
unity of the world, the fact that it exhibits a uniform structure, that
it is a single cosmos, strongly suggests some sort of unity in its
cause—that there is either a single designer, or several
designers acting cooperatively, perhaps under the direction of one of
their number.

This evidence does not force us to conclude that there is only one
designer, and the ablest proponents of the argument have recognized
this. Thus, William Paley asserts that the argument proves only
“a unity of counsel” or (if there are subordinate agents)
“a presiding” or “controlling will” (Paley 52).
Nevertheless, in the absence of compelling reasons for postulating the
existence of two or more cooperating designers, considerations of
simplicity suggest that we ought to posit only one designer. It isn't
clear that there are any. Some have thought that the existence of evil
and apparent disorder is best explained by postulating conflicts
between two or more opposed powers. Whether this is true or not, evil
and apparent disorder provides no reason for preferring the hypothesis
of several cooperating designers to the hypothesis of a single
designer. That is, having once decided that natural good and natural
evil are consequences of the operation of a single system of laws, and
that their cause must therefore be unitary, the existence of
evil and apparent disorder is to longer relevant to the question of
monotheism (although it may be relevant to the question of the
goodness of the cause).

A posteriori arguments of this type can't be used to show
that there can be only one god, however—that
monotheism is conceptually required by the theist's concept of
divinity. A more powerful argument from God's sovereignty remedies this
deficiency.

John Duns Scotus offers several proofs of God's unicity in his
Ordinatio. Scotus's fourth proof is based on the theistic
intuition that God is the complete or total cause of everything else.
His argument is roughly this:

Necessarily, if anything is a god, its creative volition is the
necessary and sufficient causal condition of every other concrete
object.

Suppose, then, that

Contingent beings exist and there are two gods.

It follows that

Each is the necessary and sufficient causal condition of the set of
contingent beings. (From 1 and 2.)

Therefore,

The first is a sufficient causal condition of the set of contingent
beings. (From 3.)

Hence,

The second is not a necessary causal condition of the set of
contingent beings. (From 4.)

Again,

The first is a necessary causal condition of the set of contingent
beings. (From 3.)

So

The second is not a sufficient causal condition of the existence of
the set of contingent beings. (From 6.)

Therefore,

The second is neither a necessary nor a sufficient causal condition
of the set of contingent beings. (From 5 and 7.)

A similar argument will show that

The first is neither a necessary nor a sufficient causal condition
of the existence of the set of contingent beings.

It follows that

Neither god is either a necessary or a sufficient condition of the
existence of the set of contingent beings. (From 8 and 9.)

Hence,

If contingent beings existed and there were two gods, each would be
a necessary and sufficient causal condition of the existence of the set
of contingent beings and neither would be a necessary and sufficient
causal condition of the existence of the set of contingent beings.
(From 2 through 10.)

But since

The consequent of 11 is impossible,

Its antecedent is impossible. (From 11 and 12. If p
entails q, and q is impossible, then p is
impossible.)

Thus,

It is impossible that contingent beings exist and there are two
gods. (From 13.)

Therefore,

If contingent beings exist, there cannot be two gods. (From 14.)
(Scotus, 87)

Scotus's argument is firmly rooted in the theistic intuition that
God's creative volition is the necessary and sufficient causal
condition of everything that exists outside him. But as it stands it
suffers from two weaknesses.

First, the argument doesn't show that God is necessarily
unique but only that if contingent beings exist, only one God
exists. The second, and more serious, difficulty arises from the fact
that there are at least two relevant senses of “sufficient causal
condition.”

Striking a match is a causally sufficient condition of the match's
ignition in a standard sense since, under normal conditions, if one
strikes the match, it will ignite. Many other conditions are causally
necessary for this event to occur, however—the presence of
oxygen, the match's not being wet, and the like. But in a stronger
sense, x is a causally sufficient condition of y if
and only if given x alone, y exists or occurs. And in
that sense, striking the match is not causally
sufficient for the match's ignition since other conditions are needed
as well.

The problem with Scotus's argument, then, is this. The inferences
from 4 to 5, and from 6 to 7, are valid only upon the assumption that
if a cause is sufficient to produce an effect no other cause is a
necessary condition of that effect. But this is true only if a causally
sufficient condition is such that it alone suffices to produce its
effect, that is, if it is causally sufficient in the strong sense. If
“causally sufficient condition” is taken in the
strong sense, however, there are reasons to believe that the argument's
first premise is false. Suppose, for example, that Abel would exist if
and only if Adam and Eve were to freely copulate, and Adam and Eve
would freely copulate if and only if God were to create them. By
creating Adam and Eve, God brings about Abel's existence. Furthermore,
given the truth of the relevant subjunctive conditionals, there is a
clear sense in which God's doing so is not only a necessary but also a
sufficient causal condition of Abel's existence. For if God creates
Adam and Eve, Adam and Eve will beget Abel. It isn't sufficient in the
strong sense, however, because God's creating Adam and Eve won't, all
by itself, ensure Abel's existence. For that to occur, Adam and Eve's
free decision to copulate is also needed. Theistic intuitions clearly
support the claim that it is necessarily true that God's creative
volitions are a causally sufficient condition of the existence of every
other concrete object in at least a weak sense. It is less clear that
they support the claim that it is necessarily true that God's creative
volitions are a causally sufficient condition of the existence of every
other concrete object in the strong sense. (Theists with robust views
of human freedom, for example, will deny that they are.)

The problem, in short is this. In order to be valid,
“sufficient causal condition” must be used in the same
sense throughout the argument. If “causally sufficient
condition” is taken in the weak sense, however, then the
inferences from 4 to 5, and from 6 to 7, are illegitimate. Yet if
“casually sufficient condition” is taken in the strong
sense, there are reasons to believe that its first premise is false. In
either case, the argument is unsound.

Both defects can be remedied, though. Even theists with robust views
of human freedom would presumably endorse

1*.

Necessarily, if any x is God, then for every concrete
object distinct from x, the activity of x is a
causally necessary condition for its existence, and if there are in
fact one or more contingent beings distinct from x, then the
activity of x is causally sufficient (in the strong sense)
for the existence of at least one of them.

(1*) is sufficient to yield our conclusion. For if the first god is
a causally necessary condition of the existence of every other concrete
object, then the second god is not a causally sufficient condition (in
the strong sense) of the existence of any contingent being.
Similarly, if the first god is a causally sufficient condition (in the
strong sense) of the existence of at least one contingent being, then
the second god is not a necessary condition of the existence of at
least one concrete object that is distinct from itself. And, of course,
similar conclusions are true of the second god.

Moreover, if God is a necessary being as many theists believe (that
is, if God exists and is God in every possible world), then the
argument's first defect can be remedied as well, since the mere
possibility of the existence of contingent beings will be
sufficient to establish God's necessary unicity. For consider the
following argument:

1*.

Necessarily, if any x is God, then for every concrete
object distinct from x, the activity of x is a
causally necessary condition for its existence, and if there are in
fact one or more contingent beings distinct from x, then the
activity of x is causally sufficient (in the strong sense) for
the existence of at least one of them.

Suppose, then, that

There are two gods and contingent beings are possible.

It follows that

There is a possible world, w, in which contingent beings
exist (from 16), and that, because each god is necessary,

Both gods exist in w. (From 16.)

Hence,

Each god is a necessary causal condition of the existence of each
contingent being in w, and each god is the sufficient causal
condition (in the strong sense) of the existence of at least one
contingent being in w. (From 1*, 17, and 18.)

But,

It is impossible that each god is a necessary causal condition of
the existence of each contingent being in w, and each god is
the sufficient causal condition (in the strong sense) of at least one
contingent being in w. (For, as we have seen, if one god is a
necessary causal condition of the existence of each contingent being in
w, the other is not the sufficient causal condition [in the
strong sense] of any of them.)

Hence,

It is impossible that there are two gods and contingent beings are
possible, that is, it is necessarily true that if contingent beings are
possible, it is false that there are two gods. (From 1* through 20. If
a proposition [e.g., 16] together with one or more necessary truths
[e.g., 1*] entails another [e.g., 19], and the second is impossible,
the first is impossible.)

But,

It is logically possible that contingent beings exist. (For they do
exist.)

Hence,

It is necessarily true that it is logically possible that
contingent beings exist. (From 22. What is possible is necessarily
possible.)

Therefore,

It is necessarily false that there are two gods. (From 21, 23, and
the principle that if one proposition entails another and the first is
necessarily true, then the second is necessarily true.)

Al-Ghazali argues that there can't be two gods, for “were
there two gods and one of them resolved on a course of action, the
second would be either obliged to aid him and [sic] thereby
demonstrating that he was a subordinate being and not an all-powerful
god, or would be able to oppose and resist thereby demonstrating that
he was the all-powerful and the first weak and deficient, not an
all-powerful god” (Ghazali, 40). Ghazali's intuition is sound but
his argument can be more carefully formulated as follows:

Necessarily, it is possible for the wills of distinct persons to
conflict. (The possibility of conflict seems included in the concept of
a fully distinct person.)

Therefore,

Necessarily, if there are two distinct, essentially omnipotent
persons, their wills can conflict. (From 1. Something has a property
like omnipotence essentially if and only if it has that property in
every logically possible world in which it exists.)

It is necessarily false that the wills of two omnipotent persons
conflict.

Therefore,

It is necessarily false that the wills of two essentially
omnipotent persons can conflict. (From 3. If there is a possible world
in which their wills can conflict, then, necessarily, there is a
possible world in which both are omnipotent and their wills do
conflict.)

Therefore,

It is impossible for there to be two distinct, essentially
omnipotent, persons. (From 2 and 4.)

It follows that if, as most theists believe,

It is necessarily true that omnipotence is an essential attribute
of God,

then

It is impossible for there to be two gods. (From 5 and 6.)

Premise 3 is proved in this way:

Necessarily, if the will of an omnipotent person conflicts with
another person's will, the latter's will is thwarted by the former's
(since, if it were not, the omnipotent person would not be
omnipotent.)

Necessarily, if a person's will is thwarted by another's will, then
that person is not omnipotent.

Therefore,

Necessarily, if there were two omnipotent persons and their wills
conflicted, then (since each of their wills would be thwarted) neither
would be omnipotent. (From 8 and 9.)

It is impossible for there to be two omnipotent persons neither of
whom are omnipotent.

Therefore,

It is impossible for the wills of two omnipotent persons to
conflict. (From 10 and 11.)

Hence,

It is necessarily false that the wills of two omnipotent persons
conflict. (From 12.)

Four of the argument's five premises (namely, 6, 8, 9, and 11) are
fairly noncontroversial. Premise 1 has been doubted, however. Thomas V.
Morris has suggested that, for persons to be distinct, all that is
needed is the possibility that their wills differ. Suppose for
example, that it is impossible for x to will A and
for y to will not-A (and vice versa) but that it
is possible for x to will A and for
y to neither will A nor will not-A (and vice
versa). Their wills could thus differ although they could not
conflict.

Is this sufficient to ensure distinctness of persons, though? It is
not clear that it is. If I somehow cannot will anything that
is opposed to what some other person wills, my selfhood or identity as
a separate person appears endangered. And if the impossibility is not
merely contingent but logical or metaphysical, the threat to my
independent identity seems even greater.

But this aside, it is doubtful that the wills of two essentially
omnipotent beings, at least, could differ in the manner
Morris suggests. For suppose they can. Then, where x and
y are both essentially omnipotent, and s is some
contingent state of affairs that is within the range of omnipotence,
x can make y impotent with respect to s (and
vice versa). For even though it is intrinsically possible for
y to determine whether or not s will occur,
x, merely by willing s, makes it impossible for
y to will not-s. That is, x, as it were,
takes power over s out of y's hands. Whether or not
s occurs, in other words, is no longer up to y. Yet
surely, if y is essentially omnipotent, and s is
within the range of its power (as it must be if y is essentially
omnipotent), no contingent circumstance of this sort could make it
impotent with respect to s. (For a similar argument see
Scotus's seventh proof of unicity [Scotus, 90–1].)

Premise 1 thus emerges unscathed. Since the proof is valid and its
other premises appear unexceptionable, the argument from omnipotence
seems sound.

According to William of Ockham, “God” can be understood
in two ways. By “God” one may mean “something more
noble and more perfect than anything else besides him,” or one
might mean “that than which nothing is more noble and more
perfect.” If God is understood in the first way, then there can
be only one god. For consider the following argument:

Necessarily, if any being is God, it is more perfect than any other
being.

Therefore,

Necessarily, if there were two distinct beings and each were God,
the first would be more perfect than the second and the second would be
more perfect than the first. (From 1.)

But

It is impossible for there to be two beings each of which is more
perfect than the other.

Therefore,

It is impossible for there to be two gods. (From 2 and 3.)

But if God is understood in the second way, Ockham thinks that it
cannot be shown that there is only one god. For it isn't clear that
there couldn't be two equally perfect beings, each of whom was such
that no actual or possible being surpassed it (Ockham, 139–40).

Even if Ockham is right about this, it does seem impossible that
there be two gods. For it appears to be a conceptual truth
that God is unsurpassable. If he is, then, if there were two gods each
would be unsurpassable. But there can't be two unsurpassable beings
each of which is God. For part of what it means to call
something “God” is that it is an appropriate object of
total devotion and unconditional commitment. If there were two
unsurpassable beings, however, our devotion and commitment should be
divided between them. (As Scotus says, if there were two infinite
goods, “an orderly will … could not be perfectly satisfied
with but one infinite good” [Scotus, 87].) Since they are equally
perfect, it would be inappropriate to be totally devoted or
unconditionally committed to either one of them. But if it
would, then neither of them would be God. So if it is a conceptual
truth that God is unsurpassable, he must be unique.

An appeal to unsurpassability isn't really necessary, however, since
God's uniqueness follows directly from his being an appropriate object
of total devotion and unconditional commitment. For consider the
following argument:

God is, by definition, a being worthy of worship (that is, of total
devotion and unconditional commitment).

Therefore,

Necessarily, if there were two gods, there would be two beings each
of which was worthy of worship. (From 5.)

If so, then

Necessarily, if there were two gods both of them ought to
be worshiped. (From 6. Cf. the inference from “x is
worthy of admiration” to “everyone ought to admire
x.”)

But

Necessarily, if we ought to worship both of these gods, then we
can worship both of them. (“Ought” implies
“can;” we are only obligated to do what we are able to
do.)

Hence,

Necessarily, if there were two gods, we could be totally devoted
and unconditionally committed to the first, and totally devoted and
unconditionally committed to the second. (From 7, 8, and the definition
of “worship.”)

However,

It is impossible to be totally devoted and unconditionally
committed to each of two distinct beings.

Therefore,

It is impossible for there to be two gods. (From 9 and 10.)

There are at least two possible problems with this argument,
however. First, the inference from 6 to 7 might seem suspect. For if
“ought” does imply “can,” and it
is impossible to be totally devoted and unconditionally
committed to each of two distinct beings (as 10 says), then we aren't
under any obligation to do so. The truth of 10 implies the falsity of
7.

Matters aren't so simple, however. “I ought to return John's
gun” (since I promised to return it) and “I ought not to
return John's gun” (since he is no longer in his right mind) do
not entail “I can both return the gun and not return it.”
So why think that if I ought to worship the first god and I ought to
worship the second, I ought to worship both of them? Because the two
cases are dissimilar. In the first, neither obligation is indefeasible;
each can, in principle, be trumped by other stronger obligations. While
I indeed have prima facie obligations both to return the gun and to not
return it, the only actual obligation I have in the
circumstances that were described is the obligation to not return the
gun. Because “I ought to return the gun and I ought not to return
the gun (that is, I have a prima facie obligation to return it and a
prima facie obligation to not return it)” does not entail
“I have an actual obligation both to return and to not return the
gun,” there is no reason to infer that I can do both. By
contrast, both of the obligations referred to in 7 are indefeasible.
(Their indefeasibility appears to be part of the very concept of divine
worship; part of what it means to be God is to be such that no other
obligation can take precedence over our obligation to be totally
devoted and unconditionally committed to him.) Both are therefore
actual, and not merely prima facie, obligations. Now even though one
can have a prima facie obligation to do something one is unable to do,
it is doubtful that one can have an actual obligation to do
something one can't do. That I am obligated to worship both deities
thus seems to entail that I can worship both deities. The inference
from 6 to 7 seems sound.

Another possible problem concerns the truth of 10. Thus, Thomas
Morris has objected that one could be unconditionally committed to each
of two distinct beings provided that their wills were necessarily
harmonious. For if their wills were necessarily harmonious,
they could not require of us conflicting acts. This objection should be
discounted, however, because the wills of distinct persons are
necessarily opposable. (See discussion in section 5 above.)

It is perhaps less obvious why devotion can't be divided
between two beings. But the best answer is probably this. The sort of
devotion appropriate to God involves centering one's life in God, and
while one can center one's life in x-and-y, one can't center one's life
in x and also center one's life in y. The devotion that God
requires appears, then, to be inherently indivisible.

In sum, neither of the two problems presents an unsurmountable
difficulty for the argument from total devotion.

Consider the Kabbalah, for example. The Zohar (after 1275)
identifies the first principle with the En Sof or infinite (unlimited).
The En Sof is “the hidden God” or “innermost
being” of God, without attributes or qualities. Because it lacks
attributes, the En Sof is incomprehensible and thus, in a strict sense,
non-personal (although it reveals itself as personal).

The hidden God manifests itself in the sefirot, however. These are
conceived as God's attributes, or as divine spheres or realms, or as
stages (in his self-manifestation). They are also regarded as names
which God gives himself, and together form his “one great
name,” or as God's faces or garments, or as beams of his light.
They are also sometimes pictured as the branches of a tree whose root
is the En Sof, “the hidden root of roots.” (Alternatively,
the En Sof is depicted as the sap that circulates through, and
maintains, the branches.) These branches are thought of as extending
through the whole of the created order; created things exist solely in
virtue of the fact that “the power of the sefirot lives and acts in
them.”

There are ten sefirot or stages in God's self-manifestation. A brief
discussion of the first three will be sufficient for our purposes. The
first is, perhaps surprisingly, characterized as Nothing or the Abyss.
(We are said to catch glimpses of it when things alter their form or
disappear; when things change or are destroyed, Nothingness or the
Abyss becomes “visible” for “a fleeting …
moment.”) This mystical no-thing-ness is God's Supreme Crown.

Both Wisdom and Intelligence emerge or emanate from the Crown.
Wisdom is the “ideal thought” of everything that will
emerge in creation. The idea exists at this stage in a confused and
undifferentiated form, however. Wisdom is sometimes pictured as a
fountain which springs out of Nothingness (the Crown) and from which
the other sefirot will flow, sometimes as a seed or germ from which
everything develops, and sometimes as a point. (The idea behind the
last image is that just as the movement of a point generates a line,
and the movement of a line generates a surface, so the
“movement” of Wisdom [together with the
“movement” of Intelligence] generates the other sefirot.)
Intelligence is the principle of “individuation and
differentiation,” and “unfolds” what is “folded
up” in wisdom. (If wisdom was the “confused” or
undifferentiated thought of creation, Intelligence is that thought
become clear and distinct. [Scholem 1946, 207–09, 213–20; Epstein,
236].)

The doctrine of the divine emanations or sefirot might already be
thought to compromise God's unity. But matters become still more
problematic in an influential treatise that was composed in Provence
around 1230, and (falsely) ascribed to Hai Goan.

According to its pseudonymous author, “three hidden
lights” are found in the “root of roots” that exists
“above the first sefirah”—“the inner
primordial light,” the “transparent (or: ultra clear)
light,” and “the clear light.” These
“lights” are one thing and one substance that “are
found without separation and without union, in the most intimate
relation with the root of roots,” or (more strongly) are the
very “name and substance of the root of all roots.” The
three lights are the immediate source of “the three supreme
sefirot of ‘Pure Thought,’ ‘Knowledge,’ and
‘Intellect,’” but whereas the sefirot
“themselves are clearly created [or emanated?] … the
triad of the lights illuminate one another, uncreated [and
unemanated?], without beginning, in the hidden root.” According
to the Pseudo-Hai, then, a triad exists in the hidden Godhead
itself.

Later Kabbalists were aware “of a possible connection between
these ideas and the Christian Trinity,” but explained the latter
as a corruption of the former. Jesus and his disciples were themselves
“real Kabbalists, ‘only their Kabbalah was full of
mistakes’”—their doctrine of the Trinity was the
result of their misinterpretation of the doctrine of the three lights!
Whatever one thinks of this, there are striking similarities
between the two doctrines. But there are also important differences.
The lights “are neither persons nor ‘hypostases’ in
God,” for example, and there is no mention of “specific
relationships” between them (such as begetting and being
begotten, or “spiration” and “procession”) (Scholem
1987, 349–54).

The suspicion of Christian influence was by no means restricted to
the Pseudo-Hai's doctrine of the three lights, however, for
“philosophical opponents of the Kabbalah” had already
suggested “that the doctrine of the ten sefirot was [itself] of
Christian origin” (Scholem 1987, 354). Nor was this criticism
easily laid to rest. Thus, Isaac bar Sheshet Parfat (1326–1408)
says (in Gellman 2005 [in Other Internet Resources]) that he had
“heard a philosopher speak in a defaming manner of the
Kabbalists,” saying “‘The Gentiles [Christians] are
believers in a trinity, and the kabbalists are believers in a
ten-ity’”.

The general problem, of course, was that, on its surface at least, the
doctrine of the sefirot seems incompatible with God's unity. Rabbi
Azriel of Gerona (d. 1238) addressed this issue in his
“Explanation of the Ten Sefirot.” In the first place, the
higher sefirot, at least, have always existed “in potentia
in the Eyn Sof before they were actualized” (Azriel,
93, my emphasis) Moreover, because “the receptor [the sefirah]
… unite[s] with the bestower [ultimately, the En Sof] into one
power, … the two are really one.” So the answer to our
difficulty is apparently this. The emanation of the sefirot is
compatible with God's unity because (unlike created beings) the
sefirot are contained within the En Sof itself in a potential or
undifferentiated form, and because (since their power is the
power of the En Sof), there is ultimately only one power. Thus,
“no emanation is radiated forth except to proclaim the unity
within the Eyn Sof” (Azriel, 93–95). Or as Rabbi Moshe
Haim Luzzato claimed (in Gellman 2005 [in Other Internet Resources])
in the first half of the eighteenth century, “the sefirot are
not separate from the one who emanates, for they are like the flame
connected to the coal, and all is one, a unity that has within it no
division.” Whether considerations like these fully resolve the
problem is a moot question.

Still, the Kabbalah is only one strand within Judaism. By contrast,
the doctrine of the Trinity, and of the divinity of both Vishnu and
Lakshmi, are firmly rooted at the very heart of Christianity and Shri
Vaishnavism, respectively. Perhaps as a result, these traditions have
devoted much more thought to reconciling monotheism with elements
which, on their face, seem at odds with it.

The question of the Trinity's compatibility with monotheism is best
approached by seeing how that doctrine fares in the light of the three
strongest arguments for God's uniqueness—the arguments from
God's sovereignty, from his omnipotence, and from the demand for total
devotion.

The crucial premise of the first argument is that God's will is the
causally necessary and sufficient condition of the existence of
contingent beings. (Or, alternatively, a causally necessary condition
of the existence of every contingent being and the causally sufficient
condition [in the strong sense] of the existence of at least one of
them. For the sake of brevity we will focus exclusively on the simpler
case, however.) The argument from sovereignty can be deployed against
the Trinity only if the relevant property is regarded as an attribute
of each member of the Trinity rather than of the Trinity as a whole
(that is, of the Trinity considered as a single concrete entity). The
Western or Augustinian Tradition does not. On the contrary, the divine
intellect and will are aspects of a single divine essence that subsists
in three “persons” or “hypostases.” It is thus
false that there are three distinct creative wills, and therefore false
that there are three distinct creative wills each of which is a
necessary and sufficient causal condition of the existence of
contingent beings.

Another view, though, is implicit in the position of many second and
third century church fathers, some western Christian Platonists, and
the Eastern Orthodox Church as a
whole.[1]
The Trinitarian views of Ralph
Cudworth (1617–88) are fairly typical of this position. There are three
hypostases or “persons.” Each has its own individual
essence. But all share a common specific or generic essence (namely,
divinity), so that each member of the Trinity is eternal, necessarily
existent, omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good, and the like.

“There is not a trinity of [independent] principles,”
however, “but … only one principle or fountain of Godhead
[the Father] … from which the other[s, namely, the Son and the
Holy Spirit] are derived.” They together constitute one entity
(“one entire divinity”), as “the root, and the stock
and the branches” constitute “one tree,” or as the
sun, the light, and its splendor are “undivided” and form
one thing. Indeed, there is so “near a conjunction”
between the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit as can be found nowhere else
in nature. The relations between them are necessary and eternal; they
are “indivisibly and inseparably united.” Moreover, each
person inheres or indwells in the others, and they are all “ad
extra one and the same God, jointly concurring in all the same
actions,” they being all “one creator” (Cudworth,
598, 616–20).

On the surface, the argument from sovereignty appears to preclude
the “Platonic Trinity.” For, on Cudworth's view, the wills
of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are necessarily concurrent.
For example, “The Father wills that s” entails
“The Son wills that s,” and vice versa. Because the
creative volition of any member of the Trinity entails that the other
two will the same thing, if any one of them wills the
existence of a contingent being, then they all will it. So if
their concurrent willings are a causally sufficient condition of
the existence of contingent beings, then the Father's (or the Son's or
the Holy Spirit's) willing the existence of contingent beings is itself
a causally sufficient condition of the existence of contingent beings
(since it entails the concurrent willing). And, of course, the creative
volition of any member of the Trinity is also a necessary
causal condition of the existence of contingent beings. It would seem,
then, that there are three creative volitions, each
of which is a causally sufficient and causally necessary condition of
the existence of contingent beings. There are thus three sovereign
creative wills, and this appears to contradict the monotheistic claim
that sovereignty is necessarily unique.

Appearances may be deceiving, however. For even though the Father's
(or the Son's or the Holy Spirit's) willing that s entails
that s, the Father's volition isn't, by itself,
sufficient for s's occurrence. For s won't occur
unless the Son and Holy Spirit also will it. It is therefore
not causally sufficient for the occurrence of s in
the strong sense of sufficient condition employed in the argument from
sovereignty, namely, that x is a causally sufficient
condition of y in the strong sense if and only if, given
x alone, y exists or occurs. In that sense,
there is only one causally sufficient condition of the
existence of contingent beings, and that is the joint
operation of the
necessarily concurrent wills of the Father, Son, and Holy
Spirit. So there is, as Cudworth says, only “one creator.”
It thus isn't clear that either the premises or conclusion of the
argument from divine sovereignty precludes the existence of the
Platonic Trinity.

Nor does the omnipotence proof rule out the existence of the
Trinity, since the hypostases are not distinct persons in the
nontechnical sense of “person” employed in that` argument.
They are not distinct persons in the ordinary sense of
“person” because their wills can't conflict. Either there
is only one will (which is part of the one divine essence) or the
(distinct) wills of the three hypostases necessarily concur.

Finally, the third argument precludes the existence of the Trinity
only if each member is, in abstraction from the others, an appropriate
object of total devotion and unconditional commitment. In spite of the
aberrations of some Christians, it is reasonably clear that the object
of the Christian's ultimate concern is the Trinity as a whole,
and not one or more of its members considered in isolation. Christian
attitudes towards the Father, for example, are inseparable from
Christian attitudes towards the Son. Christ is worshiped as
the Son of the Father, for instance, and the Father is worshiped
as the one who fully reveals himself in Christ. It follows
that Christians are only committed to regarding the triad as
the appropriate object of theistic attitudes, and that the argument
from the appropriateness of these attitudes therefore cannot be used to
show that a trinity of divine “persons” is impossible.

The Shri Vaishnavas provide our third example of a monotheism that is
“tainted” by elements apparently in tension with it. The
Shri Vaishnavas identify Vishnu with the Brahman. According to
Ramanuja (1017?–1137?), Brahman is personal. Indeed, he is
the supreme person (paratman), creator and Lord, who leads
souls to salvation. Far from having no (positive) attributes, as some
Vedantins maintain, Brahman is the sum of all “noble
attributes”—omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent, and
all-merciful. He is also advitya (without rival). Shiva, Brahma, and
the other gods of the Hindu pantheon are Brahman's agents or servants,
created and commissioned by him. (They have the same status, in short,
that angels have in the western religious traditions.)

“The entire complex of intelligent and non-intelligent beings
(souls and matter [prakriti]) … is real and constitutes the
form, i. e., the body of the highest Brahman” (Ramanuja 1962,
88). The space-time world with all it contains is thus related to God
as our bodies are related to our souls. A soul-body relationship,
according to Ramanuja, is a relationship between (1) support and
supported, (2) controller and controlled, and (3)
“principal” and “accessory.” (Images of the
last relationship are provided by the relations between a master and
his “born servant” or an owner and his disposable
property.) A body is “entirely subordinate” to its soul
(Ramanuja 1962, 424), having no independent reality or value. If the
space-time world is Vishnu's body, then, it is absolutely dependent on
Vishnu, and has little or no value in comparison with him.

The Shri Vaishnava picture of reality is thus clearly monotheistic.
Problems are created, however, by the fact that the scriptures on which
the Shri Vaishnavas draw closely associate Vishnu with his consort
Lakshmi. In the Pancaratras, for example, “the five functions
associated with God's oversight of the world,” namely, creation,
preservation, destruction, and “obscuration” and
“favoring” (roughly, withholding and bestowing grace) are
sometimes ascribed to Vishnu and sometimes to Lakshmi (Kumar, 23f).
Again, while Ramanuja and his great predecessor, Yamuna, have little or
nothing to say about Lakshmi in their philosophical writings, she plays
a significant role in their devotional works, where she is described as
Mediatrix between Vishnu and his devotees. Yamuna describes her as
inseparable from the Lord, for example, and insists that while
non-intelligent and intelligent beings (including the gods such as
Brahma and Shiva) are “only a small part of God's reality,
… the divine consort” is “the equal match of the
Lord, … sharing the same auspicious qualities” (Kumar,
61). Ramanuja, too, claims that Vishnu and Lakshmi are “eternally
associated,” and asserts that both possess “‘the
multitude … of unlimited, unsurpassed, and innumerable
auspicious qualities’” (Kumar 66–7). All of this is
regarded as compatible with the oneness or nonduality of “the
ultimate reality,” however. Thus, Yamuna insists that Brahman
(Vishnu) is the one without a second who “‘neither has, nor
had, nor will have an equal or superior capable of being counted as a
second’” (Kumar, 61). Nevertheless, the precise
relationship between Vishnu and Lakshmi was left undefined, and it
remained for later generations to work out fuller accounts which both
respected Lakshmi's importance to ritual and devotion and at the same
time protected monotheism. There were two major resolutions.

The first is represented by Lokacarya (1213–1323). For Lokacarya,
the divine consort's role is subordinate and, perhaps, ultimately,
nonessential. Lakshmi displays the “three essential attributes of
a mediator: mercy … , dependence on the Lord, … and
non-subservience [to] another [than the Lord].” Her ability to
mediate between souls and their Lord is thus ultimately dependent on
her relation to Vishnu. In other words, Shri Lakshmi “mediates
not as an equal partner of the Lord … but only as his dependent
and subordinate.” There is even a suggestion that Vishnu can
himself function as a mediator without Lakshmi's assistance. Thus,
Lokacarya “points out that in the Mahabharata, Krishna himself
becomes the mediator, whereas in the Ramayana, Sita becomes the
mediator.” (The relevance of this remark becomes clear when one
recalls that both Krishna and Sita's consort, Rama, are avataras or
“descents” [very roughly, incarnations] of Vishnu.) (Kumar
102–07) Lokacarya, then, preserves monotheism by more or less
downgrading Lakshmi's status.

Venkatanatha (1268–1369) offers a different resolution. He does
distinguish “the two [salvific] functions of the Lord and his
consort,” the Lord being “depicted as the father who
disciplines the sinner,” and Lakshmi as the divine mother who
intercedes for him. The distinction between these functions is not
absolute, however, for the divine consort merely “bring[s] out
the ‘Lord's natural compassion’ so that that compassion
becomes the basis for the spiritual rebirth of the offending
devotee” (Kumar 120–21). Moreover (and most important for our
purposes), there is no real or ontological difference between the
divine father and the divine mother. Lakshmi is an inseparable
attribute of Vishnu. Since a substance and its inseparable attributes
“share in the same essential nature,” and since one can't
understand a substance without understanding its “essential and
inseparable attribute[s],” the Lord and his divine consort form
“a single reality” (Kumar 146–7). Thus
“‘whenever Bhagavan [i.e., Vishnu] is referred to, Lakshmi
should also be considered as referred to,’” and when one
offers oneself to either one is offering oneself to both since the
deity to which one offers oneself “‘is single [though] it
rests with two’” (Kumar 124). In short, Venkatanatha
preserves monotheism by denying that God and his divine consort are
ontologically distinct.